septic_sultan

Implicit in such a title, at least in my experience, are Victorian conjectures, executed by dilettantes what languor in kitsch, crushed velvet drawing rooms. Are my dips into prosody's pots and pantries, chafing with smell of remote lilacs and lavender, the culmination of societal factors, Menckensian biology, or sly Gnostical transfusions? Inevitably one will divest, for my sake, peculiar attributable types on the basis of my answer to such a question - "pray, is he life-affirming? prone to mysticism? does he offer anything in the way of insights, ornament to our humanist cliches?" I should hope not! Rather than answer, rather than submit for your perusal a leaf-like security (or scaffolding) for such gay abstractions as "free will," or, mayhap even, "determinism," rather, I shall relegate to absurdity the very question itself so that it may occupy the scribblings of lesser publications by saying that such speculations are pointless, (sadly) perennial, and philistinal. Cannot formidable Flaubert subsist with his few moments of delicate repose, unabused by such pedantry? Perhaps, eh, perhaps not. Art, as do all things, swims (to Man's great unease) in that potentially regressive, yet no less potent relativistic plasma; perhaps its movements are so cumbersome and seldom as to give the impression of amber, but it drifts all the same. "L'art pour l'art!" - indeed! Let us resume this hardy ethos, abandoning Camus, Orwell - numerous others - to their weary ilk.